


bijna, or: two ways the euros could have gone and the one way they did go

by ferrassie



Category: Football RPF
Genre: M/M, UEFA Euro 2012
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-31
Updated: 2012-07-31
Packaged: 2017-11-11 03:47:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,095
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/474172
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ferrassie/pseuds/ferrassie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He's seen others come through injury without issue. He's had a match, a league return, but it's. World stage. Pressure. Absolute limit. He's laying on his back, the first night in Kraków, and he can't sleep.</p>
            </blockquote>





	bijna, or: two ways the euros could have gone and the one way they did go

**one**

He's seen others come through injury without issue. He's had a match, a league return, but it's. World stage. Pressure. Absolute limit. He's laying on his back, the first night in Kraków, and he can't sleep. Body sweat-hot. Knee throbs when he thinks about it. Robin's soft breathing lapsing into silence.

Listless shuffling. "You still awake?"

Voice like sandpaper. Rough-edged. Ibrahim turns to look. Robin's on his side, hands pillowed under his head. "You are awake, then." Interrupts himself with a yawn. "You okay?"

"Yeah, I'm fine." And he flexes his knee. Bends it. Robin follows the movement. Slow gaze.

He doesn't say anything for a moment. "That still bothering you?" Robin shifts up so that he's leaning on his elbow. Neck of his shirt gone wide. Giving way to shadow and skin. "Don't get hung up on it."

Robin would know. Doesn't even have to say _trust me_.

 

Ibrahim's on the bench against Denmark. Supposes he expected that. Something still twists inside of him when he takes his kit in hand. Black and orange. Robin beside him with V. PERSIE stretched tight across his shoulderblades. He puts his own on, flattening it down against his stomach. When he looks up, Robin's grinning at him. He returns it and if it's not quite as sure as it could be, Robin doesn't show it. 

When Khalid comes over, boots in hand, Robin flippantly asks, "It looks good on him, yeah?" Just enough of a joke. Hand solid on the small of Ibrahim's back.

Khalid nods. "Right fit." Pulls at the laces of his boots. Pristine white. 

Ibrahim shrugs Robin's hand off and reaches for his jacket. "Thanks."

 

The match remains unsettled up until half-time. Ibrahim can't keep his leg still. Flexing his toes. Klaas watches him for a moment, looking amused. The back-and-forth is agonizing. One end and the other.

He feels helpless like he did when he was at home, in Rotterdam, Mom in the kitchen and the TV up too loud. Shouting, shifting. Leg elevated in pain. The stillness of the house around a centre of noise, his centre of noise. At least here he doesn't feel like a disruption.

And then Robin scores. Sweet one with his left foot (of course) and he's almost pulling Khalid off the bench with him, hands on his subs top. The noise he makes, it's probably something close to inhuman, but that's okay. Body itching in the right way.

It's even better when Ibrahim's put on the touchline, told to start warming up. Robin winks at him when he guides the ball safely over it. _loves to be right_ , Ibrahim thinks.

Thinks again, _i don't care_.

Even more so when he's subbed in for Wesley and Arjen clips in a second goal. Face pressed against the curve of Robin's neck. Just as intentional. 

 

"Yeah?" Robin asks. Coming off the pitch. Top slung into the waistband of his shorts. Ibrahim stares out at the shifting bodies of black and red. The banks of lights and the people.

"Yeah." 

Robin's grin is unchanging.

 

Mark comes up to him when Eijkelkamp is working with the strikers. Drill paused. He's breathing too hard and he doesn't feel like talking. He knows how frustrated he's going to end up sounding. Annoyed.

Mark doesn't say anything either, but he's got that look. That _captain_ look and, normally, it's not condescending. But, here, it feels like it. Just can't get himself to read the pitch, to pick out the passes that he should.

"Everything all right?" Searches Ibrahim's face with too much intensity. Hair in his eyes.

Ibrahim nods, looking away. Bites the inside of his cheek. "Fine, just need a little rest."

"Okay," Mark says, thick with understanding. Like he believes him.

 

Robin kisses him sometime between their loss to Germany and their win over Portugal. It's probably a combination of disappointment, happiness, and being over-tired (over-regimented), but Ibrahim doesn't really care.

(The, "It's okay. She knows," makes Ibrahim simultaneously want to laugh and never look Bouchra in the eye again. Stops the all-too-awful spiral of guilt, though. So, he leaves it between _it's okay_ and Robin tugging at the hem of his shirt.)

It's good in a way Ibrahim hasn't felt good in a long time. Alone, alone, and injured. The trip back to Spain and playing – they gave him some relief. This, with Robin pushing between his legs and moving on top of him (at the European Championships, no less), is something altogether different. Maybe not better, but different.

After doctor's appointments and weights-bike-treadmill, it's what he thinks he wants. Like a Dutch win and Robin's hands pushing at his shorts. Lips insistent on the curve of his throat. The planes of Robin's body fit perfectly against his.

Tomorrow's a break, low-impact activity and team-bonding. Ibrahim's making the most of this. Pushes his hips up against Robin's. Bites his lip, trying to hold back the noise, until Robin convinces him not to. Mouth on his. 

It's already past regular curfew.

 

"Ibi, c'mon. Wake up. Breakfast." 

Robin's already dressed and throwing Ibrahim's training clothes at him. The room smells like Robin's shampoo and steam. Not sure how he missed that; the sun breaking into the room. Under the curtains.

He sighs heavily and pulls back the sheets. Just in his underwear. He would probably be embarrassed if it were anyone else. Inspires some sense of security in him that Ibrahim hasn't necessarily had with any other teammate. This way.

 _they know how to pick roommates_. Last thought before Robin's throwing his shoes into his lap, almost winding him. Robin never really gives him time to think. He likes that. Fast press of football and the lack of time to analyse his fatigue. The pressure constantly surrounding them. All of them.

 

It's right before supper, in the game room. After training. Khalid is sitting comfortably beside him. Both of them watching the way Johnny and Nigel shove at each other while they play FIFA. Everton-Manchester City. Predictable bastards. Ibrahim really doesn't mind.

"I'm not even going to ask," Khalid says quietly, "because it's not important unless it's throwing off your game. And it doesn't seem to be, so. Just be careful, yeah?" It's all right into his ear and he knows Khalid means it. Just like he means it.

Just like he thinks Robin means it.

"I will."

It's punctuated by Nigel yelling, pushing at Johnny's shoulder. Khalid squeezes his thigh, just once, and Ibrahim tunes back into whatever's happening on-screen.

 

He's no authority on the Czechs, how they play football. Absolutely not. The entire team settles into the TV room. Marwijk tells them, that whatever they didn't know, they're going to know. Completely. 

They watch in stilted silence as the footage is paused, rewound, restarted. Over again and back. Ibrahim focuses on the arch of the ball in the air, across the pitch. His vision blurs under the concentration, the strain.

Robin looks as focused as ever. Ibrahim almost feels guilty about the way he's watching Robin, the way he sucks his bottom lip into his mouth, instead of the match. His concentration can't be that constant. Wonders briefly if it's just because he's been out for so long, if that affects your tolerance. Football, but not football.

He's a bit startled when Robin rearranges his legs. Crosses his ankles. Eyes on the screen. Fading wetness of his bottom lip. Blind's voice breaks through the sounds on-screen, whatever he was supposed to be thinking about before. The Czech defence, the Czech midfield.

 

"Hey, you asleep?"

Ibrahim almost laughs at how ridiculous Robin sounds. Harsh whisper. Slumber party. Robin climbing in beside him when he says _no_.

They lay like that for a little bit. Side-by-side. Not touching. Just warmth. Feels more than ready to fall asleep. Reminds him of when Samir used to crawl into bed with him. After nightmares, during storms, bad losses (that was him, mostly). Asleep on his shoulder. He lets out a sigh.

"I know," Robin says. Goes when Robin moves closer, arm around him. Drifts off thinking about football. 

 

He's on edge until the squad list's released. He doesn't think that he'll be starting (it's been made pretty clear), but there's always that chance, that anticipation. His hands are sweating and he keeps wiping them off on his training bottoms. Khalid's doing that thing where he's looking at him from across the room. Careful.

(Tongue thick in his mouth. Sweat along his hairline. They haven't even started warming up yet.)

He's sick of staring across the room, where the wall meets the ceiling. White spot. Feels someone sit down next to him. Doesn't even have to look. Khalid's hand on his shoulder. Ibrahim freezes up. His blood going cold for a moment even if it wasn't a surprise.

"Soon," he says. Fingers digging into the soft spot of his shoulder joint. It clears his mind a little bit. Brief-sharp pain. "You're either going to start or you're not." He makes a noise. "Same for me, too." Hand falls down in between them. Taps the bench. Mirrors the slow come-down of his pulse.

He's not starting.

 

It's not an uncomfortable win. Three-one, Netherlands. But he's unhappy with himself. Robin's worse, though. Subbed off at seventy minutes, no goals. His frustration is obvious. He balls his fists up and lets them uncurl slowly. Entire kit still on. His smile is forced, a grimace.

The bus-ride back to their hotel ( _compound_ , as Klaas calls it) is loud and Ibrahim gets swept up in it. Feels just like it had two years ago in another country, on another continent. He's not sure where the music's coming from, but he likes it. Gregory hanging off his neck. Singing along with over-excited conviction.

Robin watches, guarded, from where he's pushed himself up against the wide, dark window. Something pulling at the corner of his mouth. It's not a smile. Ibrahim can't lie; he doesn't feel like dealing with Robin's disappointment. In himself, in whatever.

He picks up the words to the song pretty quickly. Sways around with Gregory and is just as loud as everyone else is. He doesn't want to think about himself anymore. 

 

Robin's is stretched out on his bed when Ibrahim gets back to the room. He was downstairs with the others. Talking, laughing. Enjoying the win. 

It's obvious that Robin's been up here for a while. Total silence. doesn't even think he's showered yet. His bag's not unpacked. He looks up when Ibrahim comes farther into the room. Fingers caught on his chin. He's been thinking about it for way too long. Ibrahim's caught between being worried and telling Robin to give it up.

"You know that we won, right?"

The look Robin gives him, he's never gotten that look from Robin before. It puts him on alert, on edge. He doesn't say anything, just sits there.

Ibrahim doesn't feel like pandering to him. He's tired, but happy. Looking forward to the next few days. He doesn't want to coddle Robin through this. This isn't the first time he's been disappointed in himself.

"There's another match."

Robin makes a scoffing noise. Ibrahim shrugs and takes off his coat. Aware of Robin. He's mostly undressed when Robin clears his throat.

Says, "Ibi." Voice dry.

He doesn't turn around. It's almost curfew. They may have won, but there's more to do. He pulls on the cleanest t-shirt he can find and goes to brush his teeth.

When he comes back, Robin's sitting up in bed. Looks a little less closed off. Socks and shoes in a pile on the floor. Ibrahim gets into his own bed and falls asleep sometime between Robin coming out of the bathroom and his _goodnight_. Left there.

 

It's ten after five when he looks at his phone. In the morning. Ibrahim groans to himself. He flips onto his back, blinking up at the ceiling until he hears Robin move. Face towards him. He looks paler than normal. Lines around his mouth. Brow furrowed, even in his sleep. He doesn't realize he's staring until Robin makes an unpleasant noise in his throat. Turns his back to Ibrahim.

He's not sure what the pain that pangs low in his stomach is, but he'd like to chalk it up to being tired (sleeplessness). Maybe the competition, his injury.

He knows that it's neither of those things. 

Tries stubbornly to fall asleep in the brightening light of the morning and he almost does. Fever-dream. Pain grows and swells until it's a pressure that's too big for his chest to contain.

He hears Robin get up.

 

They're playing Spain. A sick feeling slides all the way down his throat. Too many people, too loud. Some are just trying to laugh it off ( _round two_ and _nigel, you got your studs sharpened?_ ) and other, similar shit. Ibrahim tries to smile along, but he's not feeling it. His phone buzzes. Leaves it in his pocket, untouched.

To his left, Robin and Mark are talking rapidly about some sort of defence-breaking tactic that Ibrahim's already heard them discuss. Breakfast, lunch, supper. They've all been talking. Replays of South Africa.

Maybe it's just him. The other guys are excited about it. Challenges, rematches. He hears someone say something about proving ourselves. Complete with high-fiving, laughing. Robin's shoulder bumps his and Robin's smile, it's just as wide as everyone else's.

 _this time_.

 

His knees are pressed up to the lip of the table, cards in hand. Wesley's wearing sunglasses, training bottoms rolled up, and he looks ridiculous. Rafael is standing behind him, looking at his hand. Khalid keeps not-so-subtly checking out Ibrahim's. Head on his shoulder and all that.

"Let the kid play his own cards," Arjen says. At Ibrahim's other elbow. He's laughing, though. Moving around cards with his thumb and index fingers.

"He hasn't got anything good, anyways," Khalid says. Ibrahim packs his hand into a single deck. "Oh, c'mon. Don't be like that." Khalid grabs him around the wrist. Pushes him into Arjen, who moves to accommodate them. They're like that when Robin comes in with Mark.

"What's all this?" Mark asks and Ibrahim can hear the grin in Rafael's voice when he responds with, "Cards."

Khalid lets him back up and straightens his shirt where it's ridden up. When he looks up, Robin's staring at where Khalid's hand was. The skin there. He meets Ibrahim's eyes. Sits down across the table.

 

They were told to pack up the night before, but Ibrahim's still left with most of his belongings shoved haphazardly into both of his bags. Two sweaters and a pair of shoes in hand (forgotten). He probably looks exhausted standing next to Robin. Freshly-showered, hands in his pockets.

It's this kind of thing that makes Ibrahim glad they're switching rooms. Worn down around the edges. He's got too many things he wants to say that aren't about football. Wants to say them to Robin.

"Ibrahim and Gregory," Jorritsma says, holding up their room-keys. Gregory gets there first and his smile is open and friendly. He's only got one bag; offers to carry Ibrahim's shoes for him.

Robin standing in the back. He thanks him.

 

They're settled – beds picked, Ibrahim closest to the window, and bags down – when there's a knock at their door. Gregory's closest and Ibrahim knows that it would be weird if he told him not to get it.

"Ibi still here?"

He doesn't hear what Gregory says, if he said anything at all, but Robin's stepping around him. It's just them. Robin looking down at the ground, hands in his pockets. Shoulders slumped. It's weird.

Ibrahim's really not sure what he wants to hear from Robin.

"Hey." And then, "I'm sorry."

Still standing, just away from the windows. Opening up over the back fields of the hotel. Watches as Robin sits down on his bed. "For what?"

Robin shrugs. "I was an asshole." Hands tucked between his knees.

"A jealous asshole."

He doesn't have what Robin has – a wife, kids, a (drunkenly) self-confessed club boyfriend – and he doesn't envy him. It's not fair, though. All those other people. Robin doesn't have the right to be jealous of Khalid's arm around his waist.

Robin purses his lips. Says, "Yeah. For that."

Ibrahim pushes off from where he's leaning against the summer-warm window. He puts on his sandals and Robin looks like he's trying to find something else to say.

"C'mon, let's go get lunch." But that's just so Robin can't find another way to apologize.

 

They lose. 

He accepts the hug he gets from Gerard and he would stay and talk (with what little speech his has), but it's really his time to be with his teammates. Robin's sitting down on the touchline in front of their bench. He's already seen him brush off Cesc (which is not Ibrahim's business, however). Staring out across the pitch. No focus.

He crouches down in front of Robin, who repositions his feet a little wider so he can sit down. He doesn't try to say anything. Done this before. Robin gives him a watery smile when he meets his eye. Shaky sigh.

They sit like that until Mark tells them it's really time for them to go.

 

It's quiet. It always is. Noise out-of-place. Maarten's soft snoring, Wesley and Arjen's whispering. The sound Robin makes when he shifts his forehead against Ibrahim's shoulder.

 

Robin's almost completely asleep when they land back in Poland. His eyes keep fluttering open at the quietest of sounds. Ibrahim's own yawn. He nudges him awake so that he can stand up. Silent streak broken for a little while as they move between plane and bus. Movements wide and exhausted.

Robin drops down into his seat. This time, Ibrahim falls asleep against him. Mix of fight and hope leaving him. Absorbs the warmth from Robin. Smell of clean sweat. Dreams of clean-breaks.

 

Robin goes to bed in his warm-ups. Doesn't even call Bouchra, like he's done after every other game. He's turned over onto his side when Ibrahim comes back out of the bathroom. He pulls Robin's blanket over him and goes to sleep in what he thinks is probably Kevin's bed.

He's woken up later – doesn't know what time it is, still dark – by Robin taking off his jacket and pants. _told you so_. Voice breaks out into the darkness. "Ibi, come here." And, honestly, he doesn't know why he goes, why he follows its lilt. Ends up pressed into Robin's side.

"Thank you," he says, eyes closing. But Ibrahim's awake, now. 

Almost an accident when he asks, "What do you want from me?" He's a bit surprised by it, too. Bone-deep exhausted.

Robin's motionless beside him. Ankles, knees, and hips touching. Breathing sounds erratic, but only for a moment. He shifts up onto his elbow to look at Ibrahim. Face open as he says, "I don't know." And then: "Whatever you'll give me." Still searching.

He laughs and he's aware that it's cruel; Robin's frowning. Wrinkle between his eyebrows. Last little thing to make him angry. One more.

 

"You let it get to you," Robin says and at first, Ibrahim doesn't understand what he's talking about. "Your knee," he clarifies, pointing.

Ibrahim shrugs. "I'm not the first one." 

 

**two**

They win against Spain and Ibrahim's laughing, disbelief caught in his throat. Khalid finds him first. Arms locked tight around his neck. _we're in the final, we did it_ trilling around him. Like they're drunk. Someone's arms wrap around him from behind and that's okay, too.

(He tries to figure out, later, who it was, but Gregory just laughs at him and tells him to give it up. Slings an arm around his shoulders, pulling him close. They go to the team meeting like that.)

He finds Robin at the far end of the pitch. If Ibrahim were to think about it, he'd say that Robin's keeping careful distance from Spain, their players, but that isn't important. He looks happy and he pulls Ibrahim into an easy hug. He smiles back.

"You had a good match tonight," he says. Mouth a sliver away from Robin's ear. And he did. Scoring the equalizer. Can feel the sweat under his kit-top.

Robin tilts his face closer to his. "Yeah?" Robin's got that note in his voice, one that comes out so clearly when he wins. Here, in training, wherever. Nerves in the tips of his fingers.

"Yeah." He hopes Robin can't hear the catch in his breath. Doubtful.

 

Kevin is off somewhere else when they get to Robin's room. "Celebrating," Robin says, "he'll be out all night." Which Ibrahim knows isn't true, not in the slightest, but he doesn't say anything. Robin's hand hot on his wrist. On his neck. On his ribcage.

Not even sitting down yet.

"I wish you'd start more," Robin says, sliding Ibrahim's jacket off his shoulders. Then his polo. It's a bit muffled but Ibrahim hears him when he says, "I like you on the pitch with me."

Robin's still completely dressed. Zipper right up to his chin. "Well, if I weren't coming off of a major injury, maybe." Fingers on the outside of his thigh. He pushes Robin's hand away. "Take this off," he says, pulling at the bottom of his jacket.

Robin laughs, but does what he asks. As soon as that's off, he shrugs and says, "Well, maybe next time," before he pushes himself up against Ibrahim again.

They stop talking for a while.

 

The next three days are a series of training and relaxing, training and relaxing. Ibrahim's always just this side of not-exhausted. Won't let himself be. They won't let him. Everyone in Kraków is focused solely on them. Ibrahim finds that to be the worst part. Invested.

Robin's better than him at it. Mood changes. He finds himself going back and forth between total attention and spacing out. Words and plays running together. Looks around the pitch at everyone else's pure concentration. No one's looking at him.

There are no surprises about who's starting. It's not him. Mind runs a little too far with the slack. 

_even better_.

 

He hangs back with Khalid as the starting eleven moves into the tunnel. Walking out in black. Someone else takes his boots – done up special; Mom's name, Samir's – and he rocks back on his heels. There's laughter and noise around them, kinetic.

They're given a wave from one of the officials and Ibrahim follows Khalid out to the bench. He thinks he feels someone tug at his shirt, but Ibrahim doesn't turn to look. Even if it was insistent.

 

Everyone is completely silent. No sounds of shifting fabric or studs on the tile floor. Marwijk clears his throat before speaking and everyone turns to look. Eyes drawn up. Ibrahim bites the corner of his lip. Blood. It's just enough to distract him from the feeling at the bottom of his stomach.

 

He slips his boots on with a complete lack of grace. Ties them tightly and carefully like he did when he was little and the match was important. Didn't want them to come off when he stumbled over loose rocks, around a car. It's centering, this.

Eijkelkamp grabs him by the crook of his elbow and goes over what they need from him. Tip of his finger connecting those already on the pitch. He nods in all the right places. Fixing the waistband of his shorts.

He hears his name being called. Loud, loud. Filling Kiev.

 

There's a lot of noise, constant wall of noise. Silver again. And second never feels like first. Ibrahim ducks his head, but he doesn't know what for. Rise and fall. Men, women, children. Robin pulls away from him – no word, no gesture – when he sees Bouchra. His kids. She gives Ibrahim a gentle smile from distance. A kind of _thank you_ before she turns her full, radiant one on Robin. Arms around his neck.

It's undeniably sweet and Ibrahim has to look away. Does it just as Khalid gets an arm around him. Voice low when he says, "I got you."

 

**three**

He gets a text from Robin: _you seen our group? the english are calling it_ the group of death.

Ibrahim rolls his eyes. _yeah, i'm on rest_. Then: _you english_.

_hahaha. you ready?_

_of course._

 

Robin hugs him at the airport. He half-returns it. Not ready. Robin doesn't seem to care. Smells of aftershave and baby powder ( _bouchra_ , his brain supplies). It's overwhelming familiar. Can't help the way he presses his face into Robin's neck. Just.

"You look good," he says, gaze dropping down to his leg. Scar on the inside of his knee. Ibrahim crosses it behind the other. Toes to the floor. His bag-strap falling down his shoulder. Robin fixes it for him. "I'm not kidding. You're way better than Jack."

Ibrahim doesn't really understand what he's trying to say. 

They're interrupted when Mark sidles up beside them. Feeling of his hand clapped against his back. Johnny's not far behind. Ibrahim's half-expecting Marwijk to appear, too. Robin's hand slides slowly away from his shoulderblade, over Ibrahim's arm. Hadn't even noticed.

Mark tells him the same thing, that he's looking better (ready). Ibrahim wishes it meant as much.

 

Poland is warm. It hits him in a wave. Time away from Spain, holed up at home. Dark-cool houses. Rain. Can almost smell the crust of heat and smoke. He pulls at the collar of his shirt. Beaded sweat.

Khalid shakes his head. "Can't wait to train in this, yeah?" His sunglasses are dipped low on his nose. Covers the red spreading across his cheeks.

"Don't be a wuss," Robin says. It comes from in front of them. Carrying like Robin's voice does. Dips and dips. "Don't win competitions by complaining."

Ibrahim would say something to that, but Robin and Khalid fall behind play-wrestling. Laughing, breathing heavily. He keeps walking, waiting to see if they'll catch up. They get there.

 

Robin takes the bed closest to the door and Ibrahim blinks once, twice. Things that don't change. (Has happened before. Will happen again.) He pulls his sandals out of his bag and sits down. Pulls off his left sock and then the right. Same routine for his shoes. Ibrahim didn't realize how closely he was watching until Robin stops. Asks, "You okay?" with a hint of amusement (more than a hint).

Ibrahim nods. "Yeah, fine." He zips open his own bag. Mumbles, "Asshole."

Robin stretches out on his bed. Skin-sliver where his shirt rides up. He starts digging through his things. Looking for anything. He settles for just his phone; throwing it down on the bedspread. He takes a quiet breath.

"Ibi," Robin says. His arms stretched over his head. Shirt over his hips. "Ibi." He tilts his head. Eyes following as Ibrahim walks over to him. Reaches up as Ibrahim reaches down. He wants this more than he wants Robin to know.

Robin is looking at him fondly, fingers pressed softly to the back of his neck. Four little pulse points. He leans in to kiss him. Met halfway. It's just soft pressure at first until Robin decides that it shouldn't be and he's being pressed firmly into the bed. Blanket crumpling behind his back.

He knows that his grip on Robin's shoulders is too tight, that he's probably leaving bruises. Robin's not stopping him, though, and Ibrahim tries his best to follow everything that Robin's doing. Mouth and weight. Gives him a chance to breathe when he starts dropping kisses across his jaw.

Throat catching. "I missed you."

Ibrahim goes a little liquid at the sincerity. Kisses that spot behind his ear. The one he almost wishes Robin had never found. Foot kicks out unconsciously.

"Robin," he says. Heel of his hand to Robin's shoulder. Robin doesn't pull back far enough for Ibrahim to look at him properly. Can still feel the warm pattern of his breath on his throat. "Robin, is this…" 

The rest of his question just hangs there.

Scrape of teeth against his jaw. Robin's hand working its way into his underwear where it's stretched across his hip. Over-sensitive there. Trembles under the print of Robin's fingers.

"It is."

 

A few of them are laughing about it. One spare hour before curfew. No TV, no videogames. Ibrahim has a book propped up in between his legs, but he's not really interested in it. A Spanish novel with English notes. His mom gave it to him. So pleased that she could help. Ibrahim fingers its pages, distant look on his face.

Denmark. Easy. Threat, what threat. Over-confident.

Khalid looks up at him from his iPad. Tips of his fingers hovering over something. Looks like an email. Ibrahim doesn't ask. He shakes his head, eyes skimming over the other table. Cards spread out across its surface.

Khalid purses his lips. Ibrahim quirks his.

 

Marwijk is livid by the end of the match. Dying minutes. In his way. Face schooled serene, but Ibrahim can see the faint flush there. How tightly he squeezes his hands between his thighs. Some of the team, though, are a little more obvious. Ibrahim tries to block it out and just focus on the match.

Rafael's voice is constant enough, insistent enough to keep Ibrahim from that. Arjen and Robin forming the front two, Wesley providing most of their service up-front. Most of Arjen's.

"Van Persie has no fucking clue where either of them are," he says when Wesley plays a pass way too far left and fast for Robin to get on it. "Can't score if your striker can't pick up a fucking pass." Hands in the bottom of his top. Klaas makes a disinterested noise. Laying back in his chair.

Ibrahim grinds the toe of his boot into the hard-packed grass underfoot. Arjen's cross goes behind Robin, hit with the wrong part of his foot. Rafael makes a scoffing noise and Marwijk's up off the bench. Blind follows, but not for the same reason. 

Ibrahim looks on at the crush of players in Denmark's half. He doesn't want to see the look on Rafael's face. His own sweat going cold. Waterbottle in his hands. Wonders how often they criticised him tonight.

 

They're looking for someone to blame. Anger-edged voices carrying. He doesn't want to be a part of this.

 

They have the morning off. Just go slow. Ibrahim wishes they didn't. Stuck too firmly inside his own head. Replays, insults (wrong team). He crawls into bed with Robin, who makes a noise, but turns into him. Arm over his side. Ibrahim kisses the bridge of his nose and he makes a face, eyes still closed.

"Too early," he mumbles, but it's really not. Only an hour before breakfast. When his mouth moves lower, soft part of his cheek, Robin's eyes open. Mostly clear. "Fine," he says and rolls onto his back. Ibrahim shifts on top of him. Robin tilts up to kiss him.

It continues like that until Ibrahim's got his knees planted by Robin's waist, hands on his face, in his hair. Hips sliding together. Robin tries to get a hand between them, but he doesn't need that much. Grind of friction. He holds himself up with unsteady arms, Robin's hands on his back. He comes pretty quickly.

Robin's chest is moving up and down. Ibrahim tries the best he can to get lost in it. Shudders against him. Still moving. It hurts, almost. 

Ibrahim doesn't mind.

 

Robin and Klaas get into an argument during training that has Mark twisting Klaas's hands behind his back. Just holding them there, talking in clipped but quiet tone. Johnny has his body in between them. Robin testing his hold. He and Arjen watch from centre circle.

"They're already going at each other. We've only had one match." He kicks at the grass and drops the ball he's holding. "Like, c'mon."

Ibrahim doesn't nod. Squints out into the brightness. Mark lets go, but Johnny only shifts his weight. Looking down at the pitch. It's uncomfortable to see even at a distance.

Arjen coughs when Ibrahim doesn't say anything. "It's going to get harder." And he's running off, ball at his feet, to where some of the younger call-ups are standing together. Their laughter loud and surprised.

"Yeah."

 

If anything, training the next day is worse. All attention on the forwards. Robin's frown, Wesley's folded arms. Set expressions. He and Nigel and Luuk have a bit of a kick-about. Doesn't blame Luuk for getting out of there, that penalty area, as quickly as he could. It's intimidating to Ibrahim, too.

Eventually even Marwijk ends up over there, pulling Robin aside. In between Ibrahim's twentieth and twenty-first pass. The tilt of his face. Reminds Ibrahim of father and son. Chastising.

 

He throws his boots under the bench. Mix of silence and clattering noises. He's upset about the loss and he's upset about being subbed off at the forty-sixth minute. Being ineffective, useless. He sits down with an almost-crash. The force is jarring. He doesn't throw things, he doesn't yell. That's not him.

Robin's noticeably upset, too, and he stands just to the side of him. Back hunched as he toys with his phone. He gives Ibrahim a sharp look as he puts it into his bag. Pulls at the top sweat-stuck to him.

"You did fine," Robin says. Lack of enthusiasm.

Ibrahim shakes his head. "I didn't." A tired breath. "We didn't." His nails push into the soft wood of the bench. Robin grabs his wrist and Ibrahim's fingers tighten on instinct. Thumb rubs against his pulse-point. 

_later_.

 

Robin jerks him off against the desk. Hands splayed out haphazardly behind him. Training bottoms pushed down just enough for Robin to get his cock out. It's quick and Robin has him keening. Little wretched noises from the back of his throat. He runs a thumb over the flushed apple of his cheek.

He licks his lips, mouth dry. Robin's whispering too quietly under his breath. Ibrahim doesn't care. Rocks his hips up to meet Robin's hand. Slide of skin on his cock. His own breathing's erratic. Two, three, five.

"Close," he stutters out, but Robin's expression doesn't change. He comes with a broken cry of Robin's name. Fixes him with a stare before he goes to clean up. Left slumped on the desktop with his underwear pushed down under his cock, trying to catch his breath.

He hears Robin get into the shower.

 

He goes down to breakfast alone. Robin still half-asleep and struggling to get dressed. He comes across Khalid in the hallway and Ibrahim lets him talk the whole way down. Telling him about this and that. His family. Their support. 

Makes a mental note to Skype with his mom. Call Samir.

Robin comes down about fifteen minutes later. Expression bright, free of last night's deep-set frown. It sparks something like annoyance. Khalid watches him curiously from behind his bread and jam. Eyebrow arched just enough.

"What?" Ibrahim asks.

Khalid shrugs his shoulders. "Nothing." But his expression changes. Ibrahim doesn't like it. Says, "Good morning, Robin." Warm weight of a hand on Ibrahim's shoulder.

 

He tries to sleep, but. It has to be a fucking miracle. Quarter-finals slipping away. It feels over, for as pessimistic as it sounds. He shifts onto his side, facing towards the window. He's still uncomfortable, though. Gets up to go to the bathroom, sits down on the edge of the bathtub.

He's not exactly sure what time it is when Robin knocks on the door, saying, "Ibi. Ibi, you okay?" He sounds more tired than concerned. Fingers tapping against the door.

"I'm fine," he replies, but he's still out there. Probably. Leaning up against the doorframe, curled into himself. Tries again: "Seriously, go back to bed."

"No, c'mon. You need to sleep."

He sighs heavily, but he knows Robin's right. He forces himself to stand up. Robin is right there when he opens the door. Eyes half-closed. Robin reaches out to him and Ibrahim goes as far as the beds.

"Get in with me," Robin says. Slides under the sheets himself.

Ibrahim shakes his head. "No, I better not." He gets into his own before Robin can say anything. Guilt him or convince him to do otherwise.

 

"We're coming home in two days," Robin says and his voice is thick. Eyes closed. Breathing slow. Ibrahim can't hear what she says back to him. Just a tin-sounding jumble.

But then Robin is saying, "I love you," and Ibrahim puts his forehead to his knees. When Robin's done, he stands up to leave.

**Author's Note:**

> i. ibrahim was sidelined by an acl injury for most of the '11-'12 season. he made four appearances, but was still called up for the netherlands euro squad, where he started against denmark and germany. he was subbed on during the portugal match.  
> ii. timeline-wise, i superimposed the netherlands into portugal's position for the first two sections, with the rest of the tournament running like it really did; the only exception being that italy would have been euro champions in the second section. the third section follows the netherlands' actual play and subsequent elimination in the group stage.  
> iii. no particular fights arose between members of the netherlands squad during the competition, but like [this article](http://www.spiegel.de/spiegel/print/d-86402995.html) suggests, there is always constant tension between the talent the netherlands has going forward. there was also a report of a divide between robin and wesley sneijder/klaas-jan huntelaar, but i can't remember the reason behind it (nor can i find the original source, alas).


End file.
